Traveling Light
by Cynosist
Summary: It was that same popular question, "You alright?" And it was at that moment when House actually considered his response. He could say he was fine, brushing it off. But where would that get him? Just pushing people away again... Before Season Six


"Traveling Light"

* * *

House sat awkwardly at his piano. Sunday night, nothing to do, nothing to see. He looked around aimlessly at his empty apartment. When was the last time he had company around here? More importantly, when did he start caring? Truth be told, he was all alone in his little world. Behind his sarcastic presence, stood a man as cold as ice, whom longed for warmth. But everyone he got close to, he just pushed away. Blunt, abrupt, explicit, impolite, discourteous, coarse. Yes, all these words applied to him. But one thing's for sure, House was not a liar. Every insult, retaliation, and witty comeback were all undeniably, brutally honest. His brutal honesty... This is why he had come to be hated by most. That or the fact that he was inevitably blunt about it, but still...

His eyes gazed around the room only to meet at his leg. Pain was the root of all his evils. Vicodin was his only shovel to dig it out. Of course, it was only a temporary fix. He was a crazed man blindly digging, but never getting to the absolute root of the problem. In all honestly, what permanent solution was there? None, none in the least, so to speak.

_Quiet_. It was way too quiet in there, so House played at a couple keys, trying to keep his mind off things. The melody that sounded from the piano was unusually euphoric for House, but was beautiful all the same. As his fingers effortlessly slid across the black and white keys, he mused why he hadn't become a musician. Honestly, it was almost a shame, really. He had a talent for it, and a certain style to himself that set him apart from others. The life of a musician was inarguably enthralling - playing for thousands of people each night, getting treated like a star, and even being able to act like an ass (not as if he hadn't done this already) without anyone being able to say something to you. On the contrary, traveling from place to place and never knowing if people truly liked you for _you _wasn't exactly appealing. Though going back to the latter, it's not like House had many friends now, but this was his own doing.

As abruptly as the music began, it had stopped. Suddenly, he had in a sense lost his inspiration for it.

House sat up off the piano bench and grabbed his cane right beside it. Changing his mind upon further thought, he leaned it up against the piano again. House started in the direction of the kitchen. _One step, good. Two, not bad... Crap. _His first few steps weren't all that difficult. Yet a little further and he realized he just couldn't do. It was and would always be physically impossible for him. He reluctantly and frustratingly took a step back, and grabbed his cane. House was always attached to that thing. Of course as a doctor, he knew he would always need it. But as a stubborn man, he refused to admit to it. Always trying to test his endurance, House never passed his high standards.

As he made his way into the kitchen, House grabbed a glass from the cupboard, held it under the faucet, and forcefully turned on the tap. He brought the glass to his mouth and downed it rather quickly, feeling the cool liquid race down his throat. Still feeling parched, he filled the glass a second time and drank it, yet it hardly quenched his thirst or satisfied him.

House didn't feel like himself tonight. Walking through the living room into the bathroom off the bedroom, he looked into the mirror above the sink, but instead saw right through himself. House focused a little more on the reflection, staring him down. Two hard, dark eyes stared back but they were unbeknownst to him. House really had looked terrible. Heavy, dark circles had formed underneath his eyes from lack of sleep and stress and his mouth had settled into a hard-set frown with no intention of moving. Was this the same House he was familiar with? Where was that mastermind attitude, that sense of brilliance to him?

_Maybe I just need to sleep it off_, he said to himself, slightly realizing the state he was in. He walked back into the bedroom and changed into his nightwear. House laid down on the bed, cold as a stone, yet he didn't bother to pull the covers over himself. And there it was, the onset of pain. Right now, it was only a slight tingling sensation, but soon enough pain would be shooting up and down his leg as of he nerves were on fire. He grabbed the small prescription bottle on his bedside table, the only saving grace for himself. He froze with hesitation for a moment, but brushed it off and swallowed a small handful without any water.

All throughout the night, House tossed and turned in his bed. He hadn't slept at all, despite how tired he felt and appeared to be. It was 5 am the seventh time House checked the clock. Figuring he had to be at the hospital at 6:30 am, he thought of taking a obnoxiously long and hot shower to ease his nerves.

---

At exactly 7:13 am, House arrived at the doors of Princeton‑Plainsboro Hospital. Today, he felt he _needed_ to be there for his own sanity. He _needed_ something to keep his mind off of tearing his skin apart. Although his insanely drawn out shower had soothed him, he was still not right. He had to try to conceal from his coworkers that something was off lately.

While stepping into the elevator, he came across Wilson, looking as if he were in some sort of hurry.

"Good morning, Wilson."

"Morning," he responded.

After a brief moment of silence, Wilson had asked, "You feeling alright?"

In avoidance of the question, House said, "I could ask you the same thing," and stepped out of the elevator as it reached his floor.

He walked into his team's office and approached the small group.

"You're late," said Foreman the moment House had stepped in.

"Sorry, there was a terrible accident on the highway and I, being the only doctor present, single-handedly saved the life of a dying victim in the crash. I swear, that's _exactly _what happened," said House being so evidently sarcastic.

Foreman just rolled his eyes at House's retort.

Noticing his appearance, Thirteen asked in a concerned tone, "You alright? You look like you haven't slept in days."

"Fine. So, how's our patient doing?," House said, attempting to change the subject. Thirteen, though not satisfied, let it go.

Eyeing him suspiciously, Foreman responded, "We never started treatment for TB. Cuddy said your conclusions were unsubstantial and wouldn't allow us to start treatment."

"Huh," was the only thing House surprisingly had to say about the situation.

"I still think it's sarcoidosis. It explains the shortness of breath, fatigue, and weight loss," continued Foreman.

"But not why she was coughing up blood. It's TB," pressed House.

At this point, Thirteen jumped into the conversation. "It could just be influenza, which accounts for the fever, fatigue, and cough. The influenza virus is pretty common around this time of the year. She could have picked it up anywhere."

"Before I shoot down that theory as well, Taub, what do you say?"

"To be honest, I agree with Thirteen. Influenza seems more likely than TB or sarcoidosis," responded Taub.

"And... both of you are wrong. If it _were_ influenza, she'd most likely have chills, a sore throat, and nausea. She has none of those three symptoms." Repeating himself, "It's TB." House went to take a few steps toward the door.

Still not convinced about House's well being, Thirteen asked again, "You sure you're okay?"

"Yes, mother-dearest. I'm just peachy. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go ask father's permission to play with fire." And with that, House left the room and took the elevator down to Cuddy's floor.

---

Entering through the doors of Cuddy's office, House was intent on making his displeasure apparent. But for a moment he didn't say anything, he just stood there sending the message that all was not well. That was not exactly what he wanted to do.

Again, it was the same popular question, "You alright? You look terrible. Have you been getting enough sleep?," asked Cuddy in a genuinely concerned tone of voice.

It was at that moment when House actually considered his response. He could say he was fine, brushing it off, as when the other two had asked. But where would that get him? Just pushing people away again, especially went it was apparent to everyone, even himself, that he needed some sort of help. House could say no, but how far would _that _take him? For all he knew he'd end up in drug rehab, perhaps being the last place he wanted to go.

Finally knowing what he'd say, but not where'd it would lead him, House hesitated more. Suddenly, his mouth had gone dry, and the words he wanted to speak weren't exactly finding their way out. His heart was racing fast, and sweat was pouring down his forehead.

Knowing well the consequences, House opened his parched mouth and replied, "No."

* * *

Just to clarify, this is to take place sometime in season five (?) Eh, you can fit it in where you please, hah. The hardest part I found with this is keeping characters in their character through dialogue. That and the diseases. I don't even know if it could be considered correct, but let's just pretend it is if it isn't, okay? ;)  
I'd love to hear what you think, it's always well appreciated.  
--Cynosist.


End file.
